


The Jungle (Day 4 of Gwenvid Week 2019)

by Forestwater



Category: Camp Camp (Web Series)
Genre: (I don't think I do romance all that well but here we are), Angst, F/M, Gwen has a very bad day, Hurt/Comfort, So much angst, Whump, and emotional trauma, and physical trauma, and then we went from there, basically I went "hey but what about the forest for gwen?", but like...not about immigrants or bad labor conditions, by upton sinclair?, companion of sorts to S4E12 "The Forest", gwenvid week 2019, it gets really sappy and indulgent at the end but hopefully it works okay for the situation, it's about a city too, the title is like...the jungle, the violence isn't really 'graphic' but I wanted to be safe, whoops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-12-03 21:49:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20867663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Forestwater/pseuds/Forestwater
Summary: Gwen has to go into the city alone to propose an idea to Camp Corp. It was supposed to be an easy, unexciting trip.It wasn't.(Gwenvid Week 2019, Day 4: Whump/Comfort)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I watched Season 4's "The Forest" and fell in love with it, because who didn't? And then I thought, "Okay, but what if we did it to Gwen?" because I love hurting my best girl in the entire world. Obviously she wouldn't get lost in the forest -- that's not her environment. If she was going to be somewhere that should be safe and comforting but ends up turning on her, it would have to be the exact opposite of Camp Campbell.
> 
> Putting it in the city presents a lot of challenges that the wilderness doesn't -- I play it real fast and loose with things like laws and geography -- but it was a lot of fun to write. I don't like the result as much as I'd hoped, but who ever does? I hope you find it entertaining anyway.

“I know you’ll be just great, Gwen!” David took her by the shoulders and gave her a smile that was way too happy for 5:30 in the morning (and should not have made her feel just the tiniest bit brighter, but she’d long resolved herself to the fact that David had that effect on people). “And just think: after this, we can just focus on making Camp Campbell the very best it can be!”

What did he think she was going all the way to their offices for? It wasn’t for her fucking health, that was for sure. But she bore his optimism with the best grace she could muster before the sun was up -- namely, sighing and not kicking him in the shins.

“Now, do you have everything?” The Campmobile was broken -- Gwen was inclined to blame Max and the other two, but David was convinced it was “just something mechanical” that he’d be able to fix despite his complete lack of interest in cars -- and QM, the only one of them who knew how to drive the bus, had disappeared on some sort of mysterious retreat that neither of them had wanted any details about. Which meant she had to walk into town and from there take a regular, crowded, non-school bus into the city to make her 9:00 meeting with Camp Corp. (She’d initially suggested a taxi or Uber or something, but then looked in both the camp budget and her bank account and decided that wasn’t going to happen.) She’d change into her heels and interview suit in the bathroom and then blaze into that meeting and charm the Campwells’ attorneys into hopefully partnering with them as an “independent Camp Pals partner camp” -- which mostly just meant “you give us a bunch of money and we’ll use it to do our thing and you can take credit for anything we don’t royally screw up” -- after which she’d triumphantly cram herself back onto the next overstuffed bus of sweaty assholes and be home in time to collapse in bed and not move for at least 14 hours. To facilitate this plan, David had insisted on packing her a hiking bag complete with a change of clothes, three water bottles, and enough granola bars to feed the entire city. (He’d tried to sneak in an extra pair of socks and a first-aid kit before she’d told him if he made her bag any heavier she’d clobber him over the head with it.) “I know it’ll be chilly at first, but make sure you stay hydrated anyway! Dehydration can --”

“Got it, David. I usually run the First Aid camps, remember? That’s _ my _speech.”

“Well, okay!” He hovered around her anxiously as she tugged on her boots and hooked her purse onto the backpack. “And just remember, I know things didn’t go all that great last time, I’ll have my phone all day! If you find yourself getting nervous, or starting to feel like -- like you might sell the camp --”

Gwen rolled her eyes but didn’t say anything.

“-- you just give me a call!” He looped an arm around her shoulder, squeezing her against his side painfully. “Remember, Gwen, we’re a team!”

“Yeah, got it,” she grumbled, extricating herself from his grip. She made it to the cabin door when she was suddenly hit with a wave of nervousness, turning around to see David standing where she’d left him, his hands clasped in front of his chest and his smile bright and a little wavery. She put her hand on the doorframe, focusing her gaze on the pine tree clock above his shoulder to avoid having to meet his earnest gaze (and the way her chest tightened at the sight of it). “Seriously, though, thanks.”

His grin steadied and widened, and he gave her the Camp Campbell salute. “Any time, Gwen! Now go get ‘em!”

She didn’t return the salute, but she was smiling as she closed the door and headed off into the very early morning.

* * *

"_Jesus.” _Gwen collapsed onto the bench outside Sleepy Peak’s sole bus stop, tipping her head back toward the muted sunlight that had begun stretching tendrils across the sky. It was actually a rather nice walk, but ever since she’d taken over the business-and-paperwork side of running the camp, she’d kind of let herself fall out of shape, and she was just relieved the morning was a relatively cool one. She lifted her ponytail off the back of her neck, enjoying the cool air on her sweaty skin just long enough to feel the pinch of a mosquito. “Fuck!” An old lady approaching the stop jumped, shooting Gwen a wary look like she was rabid. “Sorry,” she muttered. “Just . . . you know, waiting for the bus.”

She nodded, taking a seat on the other side of the bench. “I’ve been taking this bus every day for the last fifty years.”

Oh, god, that sounded like the beginning of a conversation. “Neat,” she said, hoping her “please dear god don’t talk to me anymore” voice was obvious enough. She pulled out her phone and sighed with relief; at least the bus would be here soon.

“It started when my husband Edward lost his job at the silicone implant factory. ‘No good would come from changing the gifts God gives,’ I said when he took the job, and you know I was just right. That factory burned down in 2007, and I think the foreman -- he was a dear friend, the foreman; that’s how Ed was offered a place in the factory in the first place. Factory jobs weren’t common even in those days, and lord knows they’re all but gone now, so you better believe he thought he’d gotten lucky when old Jimmy Fitsimmons called! Dear Jim is now working at a packing plant in Missouri, and you know Missouri is just beautiful most of the year -- but goodness, the winters are rough. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing, Jimmy, with those winters,’ I told him, but he and his wife Enid were determined to make the best of it, and we’ve even been down to see their home. It’s small, you know houses just aren’t as easy to pay for as they used to be, and my Ed and I are very lucky to still have the home we bought as newlyweds -- and oh, _ that _is a funny story! You see, my father . . .”

* * *

“-- oh goodness, where was I? _ That’s _right, Edward lost his job at the silicone implant factory. So I said, ‘Edward, I’ll have to help you get back on your feet,’ and he didn’t like the idea of me working -- he’s an old-fashioned man, my Ed, but times were changing then and still are now; you young people might think we don’t pay attention, but we --”

“Wow, the bus sure is running late, isn’t it?” Gwen interrupted, glancing at her phone for the third time in the last ten seconds. She was supposed to have a full half hour once she got into the city to make herself look less like a swamp monster, but she was starting to wonder if she’d have to run straight from the bus to the meeting in her sweat-soaked camp clothes. “Wonder where it is?”

“Oh, don’t worry, my dear,” the old woman said, taking a long sip from her thermos. “It’ll be along any minute now; I should know, I’ve been riding this bus every day for the last fifty years, ever since --”

“Great. I just kinda have an appointment to get to, so . . .” She tapped her fingertips on her knees, trying not to panic. Panic made her break out, and she probably didn’t have time to put on the makeup she’d packed in her bag, so she needed to have a nice clear Dove-commercial face for this meeting.

“It’ll be here,” she said, and Gwen forced herself to take a deep breath. Deep, soothing breaths, like she’d learned during those six weeks she’d taken yoga. In through the nose, out through the mouth; breathe _ out _ stress and negative self-talk, breathe _ in _positivity and healing . . .

“Unless, of course, they’ve canceled the run,” the old woman added casually, and Gwen nearly choked on the positivity and healing.

“Wait, what?” she managed, coughing past the swallowed air. “_Canceled _it? You mean they just don’t _show up?”_

She nodded. “It happens sometimes, in a town as small as this one. On those days we just have to wait for the next one to come along.”

Gwen couldn’t exactly afford to wait for the next one, not that she seemed to have much choice. Maybe if they cut one of tomorrow’s camps, they could stretch out the supplies enough to afford a single lousy cab ride . . . “When’s the next bus?” she asked, holding up her phone and cursing the lack of a signal.

“There’s a schedule down outside the general store.”

_ I thought you did this every goddamn day for fifty years_, she thought, grinding her teeth. But the store was a straight shot down Main Street; she’d never be out of sight of the bus stop. “Don’t let them leave without me!” she called to the old woman before half-jogging, half-running down the road to the general store.

Of course there were a thousand fliers papered all over the store’s windows, and of course the schedule was buried under a months-old announcement for a “xmas family fun fest!!!” But another bus should be arriving in . . .

The bus blew past her, barrelling like a runaway freight train toward the stop at the other end of the street. “Hey!” Gwen broke into a sprint, the rising sun searing as she tried to reach the bus stop in time. She tripped over a rock, hitting the dirt road face-first and seeing stars as she scrambled to her feet. “Fucking -- _ hey!” _

The bus started pulling away, and she tried to force her body to run even faster despite the stitch forming below her ribs and the throbbing sting where her knees, chin, and palms had scraped the road; she swiped one hand across her face and it came away bloody. That old bitch hadn’t even told the bus to wait thirty seconds! After she’d pretended to listen to that whole goddamn story about Jim and Ed and whoever the fuck else . . .

It finally stopped just at the edge of town, its engine growling impatiently as she staggered up to it. The driver stared at her for a long moment before opening the doors, his expression blank.

“I was at the bus stop,” she panted, dropping her money into the till. “I’d been there for half an hour.”

The driver shrugged. “I coulda just kept going, lady.”

She resisted the urge to flip him off and just continued onto the bus, which was somehow completely full even though she was pretty sure Sleepy Peak didn’t even _ have _this many people. They weren’t even the last stop before the city, which meant it was only going to get more crowded.

Great.

She squeezed in between a family of six and a young businessman, grabbing onto the overhead bar just as the bus started moving again; one of the children stumbled into her, jabbing his elbow into her side and clinging to her backpack with sticky fingers.

“Whoa!” A lanky young man leapt out of his seat, gesturing for her to take his place. She sat down with a grateful smile, her legs starting to feel like jello after all the abuse they’d taken that day. Thank god there were still _ some _decent people out there.

She opened her mouth to thank him when he shook his head at her and added:

“Just keep your arms down, girl. You stink.”

Mortified, Gwen dropped her gaze, searching for literally anything to look at that wasn’t involved in this conversation when she noticed that she was somehow seated right next to the old bitch who hadn’t held the bus for her. She smiled at Gwen serenely, like she hadn’t just been the cause of all this bullshit.

“You look familiar, my dear,” she said. “Have we met?”

“Nope,” Gwen replied shortly, preparing to disappear into her phone when the woman continued.

“Well, I’ve seen so many faces. I’ve been riding this bus every day for the last fifty years, you know. Ever since my husband Edward lost his job at the silicone implant factory . . .”

She dropped her head into her hands and prepared to spend the rest of the bus ride trying not to exist.


	2. Chapter 2

They were 2.65 miles from the city when the bus broke down. At least, that’s what the driver told them, sounding way too disinterested in the fact that the engine was smoking.

Gwen was near the other commuters a safe distance from the bus, walking in increasingly-wide circles around their huddle with her phone held out above her -- in front of, to the side, waving around her head like a whirlybird -- in a desperate search for a signal.

“We’re two and a half miles away!” she shouted at the huddle, trying to contort herself into a position where her phone could catch even the corner of a wavelength from the nearest cell tower. Did cell phones even have waves? “How can we be _ this close _to the city and have no connection?!”

One of the passengers, an impossibly pretty middle-aged man who somehow looked distinguished even in cargo shorts and a Hawaiian shirt, laughed at her and said, “I consider myself lucky if I can get a signal _ in _the city!”

“You’re lucky if you can get a signal standing under a cell tower!” one of the others called over, and everyone who wasn’t Gwen had a cheery giggle about the difficulties of cell phone coverage.

“All right,” the bus driver said, stomping over to them with a toothpick sticking out of the corner of his mouth that absolutely hadn’t been there before, “tow truck should be here in 45 minutes.”

“Forty -- we’re _ two and a half miles outside the city!” _ Gwen checked her phone, hoping that somehow time had stopped and her meeting _ wasn’t _supposed to start in ten minutes. She couldn’t even call to say she’d be late, because there wasn’t even a ghost of a signal in this podunk piece of shit! “What’s even wrong with the bus?” She didn’t know anything about cars, but she’d get in there and start pulling wires if she had to. And if bus engines didn’t have wires, she’d kick the damn thing til it started moving or she broke her fucking foot.

The driver gave her a look that said he knew she wouldn’t understand any explanation he could give her. (Which was accurate, but still felt vaguely offensive somehow.) “It’s broken,” he said with exaggerated patience that made her blood boil.

Gwen sighed, checking her phone once again -- the time hadn’t magically changed -- and then the road, where there was no tow truck in sight.

Two and a half miles. She’d walked more than that already today.

With a growl of frustration, she pulled out one of her remaining water bottles and started off toward the fuzzy outline of the city that loomed over the tree-spotted cornfields, her legs already beginning to whine from the effort.

“You’re not going to get there any faster!” one of the commuters yelled after her. Instead of turning around and explaining that she might get a signal as she got closer to the city, and that at least she felt like she was doing something proactive instead of just standing around, Gwen decided to spare the time and breath and just kept walking.

“Come on, you’d just started to smell okay!” the guy who’d given up his seat shouted to a chorus of laughter. She flipped him off without turning around.

As she passed the bus, it let out a terrible rattling noise and a belch of black smoke that smelled like stale cigarettes.

Yeah. That was about how she felt, too.

* * *

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck _ fuck_.” Gwen checked her phone again as she shoved open the door to the Camp Corp headquarters, and yep, she was still over an hour late to her meeting. No time to change into her business clothes; no time to even wipe the sweat and dust off her face or pee or eat one of the granola bars probably turning to dust at the bottom of her backpack. She sighed with relief as the blazing sun was replaced with the air-conditioned lobby, and strode over to the reception desk.

Which was empty.

And had a little sign on it, made out of an index card and highlighter: _ “Chrissie is out this week enjoying her honeymoon!!! Please direct all calls to Regina in HR.” _

Well, that explained why the ten thousand calls she’d made to the company as soon as she’d been in cell range had all gone to voicemail. Chrissie was going to come back from her honeymoon to an answering machine chock-full of increasingly upset messages from Gwen. Congratu-fucking-lations.

Fine. Regina in HR. Where the hell was Regina in HR? Gwen rushed over to the building map and found the Human Resources department on Floor 62, now shared with Accounting, Gwen’s old pals. (She wondered if Nancy was still up there, not minding her own goddamn business.) 

Good thing she knew the building well enough not to have to hunt for the elevator; she turned toward it with a sigh of relief.

It was out of order.

* * *

“Um. Can I . . . help you?” The young woman who manned the glass desk in the lobby of Floor 62 looked like the damsel in those old _ King Kong _movies, all wide eyes and wispy blonde hair and a delicate air of helplessness. Under normal circumstances, she was the exact kind of person who made Gwen feel like a big, clumsy oaf, and she’d bounce back and forth between intense self-consciousness and the kind of embarrassing, dreamy crush she got on total strangers who happened to be perfect.

These were not normal circumstances, and Gwen barely saw the waif. “Regina! From HR,” she blurted out; the words had become something of a mantra around Floor 12, but now she couldn’t quite remember why she’d needed to speak with her. “No, wait -- attorneys. Meeting.” She tugged out her phone with shaking fingers, her chest convulsing like it was never going to get enough air to return to its normal rhythm. “Nine.”

The secretary -- who may or may not have been Regina from HR, but Gwen was too busy focusing on keeping the blackness hovering at the corners of her vision from overtaking it to care enough to try and read her name tag -- tapped for a moment at her computer, then peered up at her warily. “It’s almost eleven.”

“Yep.” Gwen was really hoping she’d reach a point where she could handle more than one or two syllables at a time, but she did manage to gesture to herself: her bug-bitten, sweat-soaked, frizzy-haired, mud-speckled self, which she honestly thought needed no explanation. “Bad morning.” Suddenly remembering one of her water bottles, and a little worried she might literally die in the lobby of Floor 62, she nearly clawed her bag off her back and ripped it open, unburying it from beneath her useless clothes and crushed granola bars and draining it in ten seconds. By the time she wiped her mouth with her arm, she almost felt like a person again. “Sorry about that!” she chirped as well as she could, trying to smooth her angry ponytail and giving the secretary -- not Regina; this was Stacey -- a smile despite the agony in every muscle from her sternum down. “I’ve had some difficulties on the way here, but if the Campwells are available --”

“I’m sorry,” Stacey said, glancing over her shoulder uncomfortably; the rest of the department was safely ensconced behind glass doors, but she had to bear the brunt of every masochist who staggered their way up that many stairs. “Mr. and Mrs. Campwell left for the day already, and I think you should --”

“No, no no no wait!” Gwen groaned and rubbed her temples, pleading for the headache building there to back off just enough for her to _ think_. “I don’t need to talk to them, I mean I could but it’s their _ attorneys _I had a meeting with! I just . . . hold on, I’ve got --” She reached into her bag for her phone, which she’d shoved in there somewhere around Floor 27 because it kept jabbing into her leg as she climbed. She had the confirmation email right here . . .

Stacey’s chair rolled back with a pained squeak, her face going white. “Drop your weapon!” she cried, terror making her voice shrill. “I’ve called for security, so -- so just don’t shoot!”

“Shoot?” She pulled her phone out of her bag, wincing at Stacey’s muffled shriek of terror. “It’s just -- it’s not a gun, it’s just my _ phone _ \--”

“Ma’am!” The door to the stairwell burst open and two massive men in security uniforms powered through, not looking even a little bit out of breath. “I’m going to need you to put down the weapon and come with me.”

Mind still reeling, Gwen hiked her bag over her shoulders again, not dropping anything. “I don’t _ have _a weapon! See --” She took a step toward them, holding out her phone so they could see it was literally just a phone, and not any sort of James-Bond-style phone gun or something.

One of the guards grabbed her outstretched wrist, pulling her toward him and twisting the arm in his grip behind her back until the phone clattered to the floor. She yelped in pain, struggling to wriggle free as the other guard picked up her phone, inspecting it carefully like it might be a bomb. “What the fuck?! You guys _ invited _ me here!” She directed her attention at the other guard, the one who wasn’t currently trying to yank her arm out of her socket. “Read the email, genius!” she snapped. “I’m late, but that doesn’t mean I’m trying to break in -- _ hey!” _ The man holding her arm tried to shuffle her back toward the stairs, and the thought of climbing up or down those fucking things again splintered whatever limited patience she had left. “Let _ go _of me!”

Stacey was watching the whole thing with rapt attention, her hands over her mouth and her eyes anime-wide, and Gwen suddenly felt a rush of fury. If she’d just had a tiny shred of patience instead of calling in the sadistic freaks trying to drag her out of the building like she was a criminal . . . “You suck at your job!” she shouted, wincing as the guard holding her banged her shoulder into the doorframe. “I hope you never get promot -- WAIT!”

The commotion had attracted a small crowd of people behind the glass doors, visible for a second as the door to the stairs swung closed. One of the faces near the front was familiar: the greased-back reddish hair, the bright purple suit . . . Gwen struggled to remember his name. Rod? Ron? Roy?

Still, he was her last hope for getting all this behind her. With a burst of adrenaline she didn’t know she had, she wrenched herself free from the security guard’s grasp and rushed back into the lobby. 

“Hey, you! Uh . . . Ron! You remember me, right?” In case the glass was soundproof, she frantically pointed at him, then at herself. “It’s Gwen! From Accounting! Remember?” she called, wracking her brain for any meaningful interaction they’d ever had and wishing she hadn’t been so antisocial.

It didn’t seem to matter; he was shaking his head and shrugging, looking around at his coworkers with an obvious “I don’t know; she’s crazy” expression.

She thought she saw him mouth the word “homeless” before one of the security guards tased her.

* * *

They’d deposited her on the curb outside the Camp Corp building, and she sat there for a long time, letting the sunlight that dodged its way through the skyscrapers seep into her aching muscles. She had a smushed granola bar in one hand, but the thought of raising it to her mouth, let alone the effort of chewing and swallowing and not choking to death, suddenly felt impossibly hard.

Before she could do more than turn it over in her hand, trying to find it in herself to be appetized, her phone rang. The screen was cracked from being tossed to the floor, but she could still clearly read the Camp Corp number -- one she knew by heart, considering how many times she’d called it that morning. The temptation to chuck her phone into the gutter was strong, but she answered the call, her heart managing a hopeful little leap despite her exhaustion. “Hello?”

“Ms. Santos?” The voice was clipped and sharp, like it could poke an eye out, and sounded perpetually displeased at the best of times. This, clearly, was not the best of times. “We had an appointment.”

“I know,” she jumped in, the chance to finally explain herself so welcome it left her breathless, “and I’m so _ so _sorry, but there was an issue with the bus, and I tried to call but nobody answered, and --”

“You missed our appointment. We waited fifteen minutes for you.”

She didn’t say that fifteen minutes was barely any time at all; she was usually running fifteen minutes late on her _ good _days. But now didn’t seem like the right time to mention that. “Right, yeah, again, really sorry, but the bus broke down --”

“We were available by email at any point.”

“I _ did _send . . .” She pulled her phone away from her ear, minimizing the call to look at her emails again. As soon as she’d had reception she’d sent them an email, impressively professional considering she’d drafted it while trying not to fall into the ditches that were cratered along the side of the road into the city.

_ Message failed to send. The connection timed out. _

Fuck.

Gwen lifted the phone in time to hear, “-- displays a fundamental lack of reliability. We require our Camp Pal partners to be courteous and responsible, and it has become apparent that Camp Campbell is not able to meet our standards. You may consider our negotiations closed.”

“But I’m outside --” She was talking to dead air.

Okay. This was okay. She wasn’t going to cry. She was definitely _ not _ going to cry on the sidewalk of a city she didn’t know, in front of her former workplace that didn’t know her, because she’d failed _ yet again _to get the camp help from the best names in the business. 

There was no reason to cry, when she could get royally pissed off instead.

Sure, she wasn’t the most memorable employee in the world, but how could R-something not recognize her? It’d barely been two months since she’d worked there, for fuck’s sake! How did he get so far in the business if he had the memory of a goddamn goldfish?!

Maybe it was a . . . Clark Kent situation. Gwen climbed to her feet, looking down at herself. Her normal camp uniform had been put through the ringer; the elastic on her socks had started to give up, sagging down below her scraped knees like sad, deflated balloons, and different layers of sweat stains made concentric circles under her arms, chest, and back like the rings inside a tree.

“Hey, lady, you okay?” She glanced over at a street musician set up at the end of the block, strumming his guitar absently while he watched her with an expression somewhere between concerned and wary. “You don’t look so good.”

She laughed, the sound a little too high-pitched and unstable for her liking. “What was your first clue?”

He shrugged and went back to his guitar. “Whatever, crazy lady.”

She pulled out her phone and turned the camera to selfie mode, staring past the cracked glass at the dried blood and dirt smeared across her face like the war paint of a psychopath. And admittedly her hair had suffered the effects of being electrocuted, but . . . well, there was no way that had been a good story, especially compared to the carefully-styled puff bun she’d worn every day at the HQ.

Gwen still had her clothes, and she had the camp’s credit card as well as her own. She could find a bathroom, change, tame her hair and slap on some makeup, and get herself into something that resembled a person. She started walking, picking a direction at random and dropping the last of her cash into the musician’s guitar case as she passed.

“Thanks, crazy lady!” he called, but it barely registered underneath the grinding gears in her brain.

She’d bypass Floor 62 entirely and would go straight to the top, _ demand _ those attorneys listen to her, or call the Campwells, or _ something_.

She was going to turn herself into goddamn Superman.


	3. Chapter 3

The bell above the convenience store door chimed as she let herself in, uncomfortably loud. She scrubbed her cheek with the heel of her hand, trying to make herself look a little bit more presentable, and hurried up to the counter. “Hi, can I use your bathroom?”

The clerk gave her a bored look, snapping his gum. “Customers only.”

“Seriously?” Gwen sighed and turned to the packed shelves crammed into the store’s tiny space. This could be a good thing, actually . . . she had the clothes, makeup, and brush, but she could _ definitely _ use some deodorant. And a first-aid kit. Oh, and maybe a little hairspray, and her legs were kind of scraped up, so maybe some of those cheap-ass stockings would be a good idea . . . Yeah, okay, this was actually a total blessing-in-disguise situation! _ Thanks, rude store clerk! _

She dropped her armful of supplies onto the counter and held out a credit card, resisting the urge to smirk at the teenage boy who clearly didn’t care that she’d called his bluff. “Here you go!” she said brightly, giving him a smile that would put David to shame. _ Give me the bathroom now, asshole_, she thought.

He looked from the pile of stuff back up at her, his expression unchanging. “Cash only.”

Oh, for Christ’s sake. She couldn’t go back to that homeless guy and ask for her money back, could she? No, that was insane. She’d find a machine, or a bank, or . . . a better store, _ something_. “Where’s the nearest ATM?” He shrugged, and she just barely kept her growl internal. “Okay, fine. I’m gonna leave all this here, and I’ll be back with money. You’ll see me back,” she said, pointing at him, “and I’ll buy all this stuff and use the bathroom.” 

She turned and stormed out, muttering, “It’s like you don’t even _ want _people to buy anything.”

The bell tinkled cheerfully as the door closed behind her.

* * *

Camp Corp was located in a city with zero ATMs, as far as Gwen could tell.

The sun was high and golden, stretching her shadow back toward Camp Campbell as though it also didn’t want to be here, and she’d been hitting up each storefront like a door-to-door salesman or a Mormon, desperately trying to find somewhere that would give her money. But for some reason her Clark Kent look wasn’t winning people over . . . probably because Clark Kent had never looked like he’d been hit by a train and dragged twelve blocks before. (She snorted to herself, very aware that she was holding onto her composure by a fraying thread. _ That’d be a hell of a movie.) _

Wasn’t there supposed to be an entire shopping district? The city wasn’t known for having tourists, but there had to be some sort of little area for all the non-locals to find everything. Getting annoyed with this street, which appeared to be almost exclusively high-end bars that wouldn’t open until night fell, she ducked into an alley to cut across and escape the blazing heat. She stepped over a puddle of something -- no way was she inspecting it -- and came to a stop, tilting her head back and enjoying the momentary bliss of not walking and of the drop in temperature.

“All right, sweetheart, we’re going to do this nice and easy. No one’s gonna get hurt.”

Gwen’s eyes snapped open and she turned around, raising her hands to the sides of her head as soon as she saw the glint of metal, before she even recognized it as a gun. The man holding it was older, and vaguely familiar; she wondered if it was panic-induced paranoia making her think she’d seen him crossing the street a few blocks before or if they’d actually been following her.

He smiled at her, gentle and warm. He had the kind of silver-fox attractiveness that used to be her downfall in college, and he held out his hand to her like he was going to escort her across the alley. “Good job. Now just take off your purse very slowly and set it on the ground, right there at your feet.”

There was a younger man next to him, a hoodie pulled over his head and a knife between his fingers. He was fidgety -- kept glancing back at the mouth of the alley and then back at them, vibrating with impatient energy. “Come _ on,” _he hissed, glaring at her and then at his partner.

The man with the gun chuckled softly, never taking his gaze off Gwen’s, like this was an inside joke between the two of them. “Don’t mind my partner,” he soothed. “He’s a little heated, but as long as you listen to me you’re going to be just fine.”

She slipped her bags off her shoulders, dropping them to the ground. But unable to keep her mouth closed, she said, “Are you guys seriously doing a _ good robber, bad robber _ thing here?”

The first man’s eyes steeled. “Well, we could both be the bad robber if you’d like.”

Yep. She needed to learn how to shut up in a big way. (Weirdly, she found herself missing the Quartermaster. Or Campbell. Hell, even David probably would find a way to smile himself out of this situation.) “Okay, here. Now what?”

“How about you empty your pockets? Nice and slow -- one at a time.”

Her phone clattered to the ground yet again, along with her wallet and another sad granola bar. He had the younger man pat her down -- which he did, roughly, sullen like he found this as undignified as she did -- but the thought never entered her mind to kick him or otherwise defend herself. Not when the mouth of that gun was pointed at her, black and growing larger the longer she stared at it.

“That’s everything.” The one next to her kicked at the asphalt before scooping up her belongings.

“There we go,” the other said, still speaking soft and gentle, like she was a cat that would spook and run away. “You’ve been very brave, sweetheart. Now we’re gonna get out of your hair, and you’re gonna stay in this nice, cool little alley until you count to one thousand, then you’ll go on your way.” His grip tightened on the gun, almost imperceptible except every cell in her body was focused on that small hunk of metal and the fingers wrapped around it. “I _ know _you’re smart enough not to try and follow us, but just as a helpful reminder . . .”

He inclined his chin slightly and the young robber whirled on her, punching her in the stomach. She doubled over, gasping for air that wouldn’t come, and he landed a second blow to the side of her head. As she fell, barely able to bring her arms up enough to keep her skull from cracking against the pavement, he kicked her in the ribs, and agony lanced through her side from her hip up into her shoulder, black and purple spots blooming in her vision and floating across it, even as she squeezed her eyes shut.

Gwen curled up on herself, wrapping her arms around her head. She was vaguely aware of a pained huffing sound, but wouldn’t be able to connect it to her desperately convulsing lungs until later.

When she opened her eyes again, the men were gone.

Like the relief was permission, something in her chest loosened and she was able to breathe again, the blackness in her vision ebbing away like a low tide with each greedy inhale. She was freezing, clammy with the thick, slimy sweat of violent illness or mortal terror, and she retched, her empty stomach bringing up nothing but the taste of bile in the back of her throat. She pressed her forehead against the cool asphalt, not caring about germs or Camp Corp or anything except the thunderous pounding of her heart and the pain all throughout her body, little aching reminders that she was alive, had seen a gun pointed at her and seen the hands on that gun and was _ alive_.

It wasn’t the first time she’d faced death. Campers did dangerous shit, activities went horribly wrong, that whole awful ordeal with Daniel. But it was the first time she’d ever had a weapon trained on her like that, and the cold impartiality of it, the _ certainty _ she’d felt, _ known _that a bullet would fly out of that cavernous dark mouth -- and of course she wouldn’t be able to see it, she’d just hear a deafening crack and feel the impact, but in her imagination it was silent and slow enough to erupt like a volcano, a tiny gray blur that would rip her body open and spill her out, paint the alleyway red and she’d die here and no one back at camp, back home would know . . .

She was distantly aware she was moaning, rocking back and forth. Even more remotely was a voice in the back of her head, telling her she needed to get up and figure out a way back home without her phone or money or clothes that didn’t make her look like she lived in a dumpster, but her heart was slamming into her throbbing rib cage loudly enough to drown everything out except the underwater-meaty sound of blood rushing in her ears.

“Hey.” Two hands grabbed her shoulders, hauling her upright. Her shoulder and arm complained at the rough treatment, but that was instantly blotted out by the cold certainty that the men had come back, she’d seen their faces and they didn’t want to leave any loose ends so they’d returned to kill her and -- “Whoa.”

The guy holding onto her was young, dirty blonde hair buzzed close to his head and blue eyes wide with surprise. Gwen blinked through the tears that had been pouring silently down her face without her noticing -- she could’ve been crying since the first punch, for all she knew; she wasn’t aware of it until her vision swam and blurred with tears about to fall -- and realized he was wearing a police officer’s uniform.

“What the hell happened to you?”

She didn’t consider herself much of a “thin blue line” kinda person, but the relief that someone who could make decisions was here sapped her energy; like a puppet whose strings had been cut, she sagged forward against his shoulder, not even caring that she looked like a crazy person. “Robbed -- there was a gun -- they hit me . . .” As the tilt-a-whirl ride of “I’m going to die” that her mind was on slowly began to come to a halt, anger wormed into the place where panic was retreating. “They _ hit _me!”

The officer lifted her to her feet, not as harsh as before but still making her wince. It felt like every inch of her body was a pulled muscle. “Ma’am, how about you come with me?”

Going with him seemed like a good idea, considering she had literally nothing except the ratty, stained clothes on her back. She followed him in a bit of a haze, letting him lead her along by the upper arm out of the alley and back onto the sidewalk, which was less blindingly bright than when she’d gone in; she tilted her head back, peering up curiously at the dove-gray sky, but with another sharp tug she was pulled forward again, nearly tripping over her feet as she came back down to earth.

They were a few blocks away from the precinct station, the officer was in the middle of telling her, when a glint of something green-gold and shiny caught her eye. Something so incongruous with the grays and worn-brick maroons of the city, yet familiar enough to stand out like a soda can on the surface of the moon. She skidded to a stop, ignoring the insistent yank on her arm as the policeman tried to draw her forward. Gwen brushed the tangled sheet of her dirty hair out of her face (the hair elastic had disappeared somewhere between the bus breaking down and the robbery, but she’d be damned if she could remember when or how), blinking several times to make sure it wasn’t a hallucination.

“Ma’am, what --”

“My _ stuff! _” She pulled free of his grasp and sprinted to the side of the road, where a Camp Campbell medallion glimmered in the silvery daylight. She’d gotten it the very first day of work, and had immediately stuck it onto her old college backpack and never thought about it again.

Gwen skidded to her knees at the edge of the curb, stretching around an overflowing trash can to grab the purple backpack from its precarious spot near the gutter. Her work clothes and shoes were still inside, though the granola bars and makeup had been taken. 

She hugged the bag to her chest, her eyes filling with irrational tears as she looked up at the officer, who’d come warily within a few feet and rested his hand on the stick hanging from his belt. “This is my bag,” she explained unnecessarily, sniffling.

He made a thoughtful noise, looking between her and the garbage it’d been sitting in. “They must’ve decided to drop anything heavier than it was valuable.”

Okay, that stung a little, but the fact that her clothes were apparently worthless meant so much less than the fact that her clothes were _ here_. “Thank fucking god,” she said with a choked laugh, then looked up at him as a thought occurred to her. “Oh, shit, do you need to test this for fingerprints or DNA or something?”

He gave her a look that suggested she watched too many cheesy crime dramas. “We can certainly try, ma’am.”

He held out his arm and she climbed back to her feet, following him meekly back to the station.

* * *

“Feeling better?” The receptionist gave Gwen a sympathetic smile as she emerged back into the waiting room, her exhausted legs wobbling in her heels like Bambi learning how to walk on ice.

She nodded, dropping a hairbrush back onto her desk. “Uh, yeah. Thanks.” She’d finally changed into her nicer-but-not-nice-enough-to-steal clothes and patted herself down as best she could with damp paper towels, just enough to get the blood and dirt off. She still probably didn’t look or smell all that great, but at least she felt like a person again. 

“No problem! It can take a while for us to take a statement, and I thought you might use a little sprucing up!” She beamed, and even though her hair was green and her eyes were black she was so much like David it gave Gwen a sharp pang of homesickness. “Are you sure you don’t want a band-aid for some of those scrapes?”

There was no reason to say no, except that she’d regained just enough pride to feel humiliated at her situation. “Nah, I’m fine. Thanks.”

“Well, if you change your mind!” She went back to work -- dropping the hairbrush into her garbage can when she thought Gwen wasn’t looking. (Which was fair.)

Even after everything she’d gone through that day, it was not having her phone that made her feel truly vulnerable. She didn’t know anyone’s phone number off the top of her head -- why would she? They were all in her contacts -- and she didn’t even have anything to do with her hands while she waited to tell the police about her robbery. It wouldn’t come of anything, but she wasn’t sure what else to do, and maybe they’d at least be able to contact David on Facebook or something.

Hell, she’d settle for Tinder if she thought he ever checked it.

Gwen hugged the backpack in her lap, resting her chin on it and staring out the window. Maybe this was nice, she thought, trying to imagine how David would respond in this situation. No distractions from a screen, she could just enjoy the beauty of the city life going by uninterrupted. She was lucky to be alive, really, and didn’t that matter more than some silly credit cards and a cracked cell phone?

Oh, fuck. She’d have to cancel those credit cards at some point. Hopefully they hadn’t drained her or the camp’s bank accounts yet -- though she was sure her robbers would be pretty disappointed at what they found, if they’d tried. A whole $75 if they were lucky . . . and so much for thinking like David.

Okay, Mr. Campbell then. He’d . . . well, he’d probably be halfway to Mexico by now, considering his track record. And she couldn’t even imagine what QM would do or think in _ any _situation, let alone this one . . .

Suddenly she sat up fast enough to give her still-aching head a burst of renewed pain, her bag falling from her lap onto the floor. “Oh my god,” she breathed, then scrambled to grab her backpack, running out the door so fast she nearly fell over and ignoring the startled cry of the receptionist, her gaze intent on the figures in soft pastels walking arm-in-arm down the sidewalk past the police station.

“Hey, Campwells! MR. AND MRS. CAMPWELL!”

They were a block and a half down the street already, and her legs ate up that distance recklessly fast, considering the speed of the cars racing by and the not-made-for-running-ness of her heels. Still, she weaved through the crowd, shoving past businessmen and through couples without paying attention, the entire focus in her life shrinking to the backs of the two people who might make this entire nightmare of a trip worth it.

They finally heard her when she was practically on top of them, turning with surprise that turned into alarm as she careened to a stop at their feet, doubling over with her hands on her knees to catch her breath. “Gwen, isn’t it?” Mrs. Campwell asked, peering into her face with concern. “What are you doing all the way out here?”

“Meeting --” she managed between gasps of air, “with your lawyers -- camp partnership -- Pals --” 

“Oh, that’s right!” Mr. Campwell chimed in with a smile, “you were hoping to make Camp Campbell part of our team. How did that meeting go this morning?”

Mrs. Campwell winked and leaned into her husband. “We’re playing hooky,” she said with a conspiratorial smile, which would’ve been adorable on literally any other day.

She opened her mouth to explain everything that’d happened to her when she was tackled from the side, smashing her hip and shoulder into the sidewalk for what felt like the hundredth time that day. She faintly registered a scream from Mrs. Campwell, but her attention was mostly on the man hauling her back up to her knees.

“What the hell?!” she demanded, twisting around to see another police officer -- not the one who’d brought her in; she was pretty sure his name was Brian, and he’d disappeared for lunch immediately after dropping her off -- pulling her arms behind her back. “_Ow!” _

“What is the meaning of this?” Mrs. Campwell demanded, shuffling closer before Mr. Campwell drew her back. 

“This woman was under arrest,” the officer said abruptly, pulling her backpack off and fumbling at his belt for handcuffs at the same time. “Our receptionist saw her fleeing the station.”

Gwen scoffed, furiously trying to yank her hands free. “I was the _ victim _of a crime!” she said, indignant. “I was there to report a robbery!” 

“Then why were you running away?”

She jerked her head at the Campwells, who were still within earshot, although they’d quickly backed away enough to not appear like part of the scene. “I had to talk to them.”

He frowned. “Why wouldn’t you just _call _ them?”

For a moment the unfairness of that question left her completely dumbstruck. Then she heard the _ clink _of the handcuffs being pulled free and felt her bag slip off her wrists, and realized that the rest of her day was going to be spent in a jail cell, waiting for literally anyone to listen to her while her only nice outfit got wrinkled and grimy and she didn’t even have her granola bars left to keep her from getting hungry.

Earlier in the station she’d been trying to imagine what her coworkers would do, because idiots and crooks and whatever the fuck the Quartermaster was, they were still a million times more competent than her. And right now Mr. Campbell would either be lying his ass off or plotting some sort of stunningly immoral escape that she wasn’t depraved or cunning enough to imagine. QM would . . . fuck, he could do literally anything and she wouldn’t be surprised: unleash a pigeon army, hook the cop in the eye, pop a cyanide capsule and die with his secrets. And David would politely let himself be handcuffed and thrown into a cell, sure that everything would work out just fine and keeping the kind of bright, sunny outlook she just wasn’t capable of.

Then again . . . _ would _he?

Gwen hadn’t been around for the throwdown at The Only Bar with Bonquisha’s ex, but she _ had _been the one to show up at Sleepy Peak’s police station to pick up a bunch of kids and her cocounselor, who had a black eye, a split lip, and the uncontrollable anxious smile he always got when they both knew he’d done something terribly wrong and he was hoping she’d just let him get away with it. He wasn't too good for a little violence, not if the situation called for it.

Any of the campers would’ve already lit something on fire by now. She knew the chaos they’d caused at their temporary summer camps; she’d seen firsthand with Daniel how they refused to take anything lying down, even when it seemed like there was no other option.

_ For fun’s sake, Gwen, _ she thought, a hysterical giddiness bubbling up inside her chest, _ do you belong at Camp Campbell or not? _

“You know what? _ Fuck _this.” 

She snapped her head back, hearing it crack against the officer’s nose, and at the same time pulled her arms forward. She wrenched herself from his grip, spinning around and snatching her backpack, then shoved him away while he was still recovering and stumbled to her feet, running before she’d even fully gotten her weight underneath her.

“Gwen! Wait!” she heard one of the Campwells call, but she didn’t turn around to see -- nor did she bother checking if the officer had begun to chase after her, or how badly she’d hurt his nose.

She just ducked her head and put all the fire she had remaining into her legs, and looked for a place to disappear.


	4. Chapter 4

He didn’t catch her.

Gwen finally staggered to a stop, leaning against a railing that overlooked the city’s central park; she let the flimsy metal take most of her weight, even as she heard an ominous creak, sucking in breaths through her nose as she focused all her energy on not throwing up over the side of the bridge.

The Campwells must’ve held the policeman up. There was no way she was able to outrun a cop even when she wasn’t so tired her legs felt like cooked spaghetti. Despite how badly they’d treated her so far, she sent a quick mental thanks out into the universe for Camp Corp and its two absurdly nice founders.

_ We would’ve been a good fit for their stupid partner program, _she thought, resting her elbows on the railing. David was the living embodiment of the cooperation and friendliness the Campwells were supposedly all about, and with the freedom to do what they wanted combined with the clout (and cash) Camp Corp had at its disposal, they could do some genuinely cool things with Camp Campbell . . . 

If she’d had a chance to actually pitch it, anyway. She sighed, relishing the breeze that came off the river cutting through their park and surprising herself with a chest-tightening loneliness. It was so foreign -- at least, it didn’t belong here, _ now_, with mini-skyscrapers at her back and the smell of baking concrete in the air -- that it took her a minute to realize she was homesick.

Gwen had spent every summer for the past four years dreaming of the city, of the lights and noise and life of a place full of people -- full of people like _ her_, with dreams that probably won’t pan out but who can’t stop dreaming them anyway. She’d cried more than once, looking at the backdrop of New York that just sat quietly perfect behind and around her friends’ selfies, brimming with so much envy she’d actually wondered if it was possible to die from wanting something so much. She’d been better with the homesick campers than David, in fact; she knew exactly what it felt like to be stuck somewhere while the rest of your life was hours away, going on without you. But now that she was here -- not in _ the _city, the one she’d carved out a place for herself with her fingernails and shoved her way into like she belonged, but still -- she just saw the short, fluffy green trees of the park and thought about pines that stretched into the clouds, needles carpeting the forest paths that wove through the giants and were always in danger of being overwhelmed by tiny bright vegetation, the smell of the lake and the campfires -- and for fuck’s sake, did she even miss the sounds of the campers screaming and whining at each other?

There was no way in the world that she actually _ longed _to go back to Camp Campbell.

Except, of course, that she did.

And now she had to figure out how to get the fuck back there.

She wiped at a bead of sweat that had evidently escaped her hairline. As she did, a fat raindrop splashed onto her wrist, trickling down into the sleeve of her blouse, as cool and ticklish as the one that she’d just brushed away.

Those two drops were the only warning she had before the skies opened up.

* * *

“Shit shit shit -- fuck, shit, wet, it’s so _ wet _\--” The litany of obscenities and stating-the-obvious wasn’t doing anything to keep her dry, but it took her mind off her sore legs as she tottered on slippery heels through the downpour, holding her backpack above her head as an extremely ineffective umbrella. While running around the city in as confusing and zigzagging a pattern as possible had been a great way to evade the cops, it also meant she was hopelessly lost, and without a subway map to orient herself (the city was plenty big compared to Sleepy Peak, but still not large enough for subways) she was just wandering through the emptying sidewalks, ducking out of the sight of police cruisers and emergency vehicles as city officials tried to herd people out of the flooding roads. All of the gutters she passed were overflowing, spitting fountains of dirty water into the street, and more than once she’d had to change directions when her way was blocked by “Road/Sidewalk Closed” signs -- the ground behind them already ankle-deep with water.

She wasn’t the _ only _person out in this weather -- a little rain and flash-flood warnings weren’t enough to keep the locals from their business -- but the area she’d wandered into was empty, silent except for the steady plashing of water. Gwen’s sense of direction wasn’t good enough for her to lead a Hiking Camp on her own, but she had the vague sense that this block was near the park, which meant the river had to be close by. Maybe they’d already left for higher ground, or more likely had just boarded themselves up for a long, damp evening. Either way, the streets here were deserted, and the deluge had long stopped being a welcome relief from the heat; Gwen clenched her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering and pulled her soaked jacket tighter around herself.

She just had to find someone. Someone who wasn’t a criminal, or a cop, or a douchebag lawyer, or an old lady who wouldn’t shut up . . . just a single nice person, who could point her toward a bus and maybe give her a couple bucks so she could actually afford the trip back. She wasn’t picky; a friendly neighborhood pervert or drug dealer would be welcome, as long as they were willing to give her directions and not try to arrest or attack her.

Just, _ someone_. David was always saying the world was full of kind people willing to help, so where in this god-awful city were they?

As Gwen passed a darkened townhouse, she heard a low growl from an alley. She hesitated -- her luck with spooky alleyways hadn’t been great so far -- but the growl trailed off into a whimper and she ducked in, following the sound to a yard about half the size of a camping tent, where a massive silvery mutt had its snout pressed against the chain-link fence. As soon as it saw her it started barking, the massive, bassy kind that sounded like the rages of hell, and lunged at the fence, jumping up onto its hind legs and scrabbling at the links.

She jumped back with a choked yelp, hitting the brick wall on the other side of the alley and splashing filthy water up her legs, before realizing that the dog was behind a fence and she was perfectly safe. Laughing breathlessly at herself for being so paranoid, she took a few steps forward, peering behind it (which wasn’t easy, since every time she moved it launched itself at her again and blocked her view) to see if there were any lights on. No way was anyone going to leave this dog alone out here, right?

As though to puncture her point, a crack of thunder broke right above her head, loud enough to drown out the dog’s barking for a second. The sky lit up white a moment later and she decided there was no way she could just walk away. She’d call Animal Control or something, say there was a dog that she was worried had been abandoned in the flood, and -- she didn’t have a phone.

Right.

So her options were: keep going and hope the dog didn’t drown, knock on doors until she found someone willing to let the crazy drenched lady in to make a phone call, or scramble over the fence, hunt through the pile of dog stuff piled next to the building, and concoct a makeshift leash -- all while hoping the dog sounded scarier than it was, and didn’t eviscerate her.

Option one was unacceptable; not only would she feel way too guilty, but the thought of retelling this story and having to say the words “So then I walked away from the helpless mutt trapped outside in a typhoon” made her cringe. Option three would probably kill her, especially if someone _ was _home and feeling trigger-happy, which apparently meant she was going to spend the rest of this storm being a door-to-door dog wellness salesman. (Saleswoman. Whatever.) She turned back toward the street 

and heard 

** _SCRAEECH_ **

the sound of metal giving way --

and the frantic barking increased.

Gwen sprinted to the mouth of the alley before even looking back, and as she did the dog squeezed through the gap it’d made between the fence and the building and take off after her.

Running through the crowded city in the heat of the day and high heels had been _ hard _. Running through ankle-deep puddles and nearly-horizontal sheets of rain in high heels, on an empty stomach and pursued by a dog that made Cujo look sweet and harmless, was infinitely worse. She vaulted over one of the road signs blocking off the next street, nearly twisting her ankle on the slick pavement, and leaned forward as she ran, letting the wind and lashing rain wash her down the hill toward the flooded park and swollen river.

Her soaked feet slid around in her shoes, and she knew breaking an ankle was imminent. But she also knew what kinds of things might be waiting under the water, and a broken ankle was probably at least marginally better than stepping on a used needle and injecting who-knew-what into her system. 

Besides, her momentum at that point wasn’t to be stopped, especially not when the barking behind her wasn’t getting any fainter.

Her heel slipped into the grate of a manhole cover like a key into a lock, ripping both shoes from her foot with a sickening lurch and sending her sprawling. Gwen caught herself on her hands and knees and tried to feel around for them, pawing at the ground blindly with one hand, the brown-gray water rushing downhill past her like a fast-moving shallow river, as she used her other to push her hair and the rain pouring from it off her face. The barking had stopped. _ Please be gone, please be dead, please I don’t care just don’t be there anymore -- _

The dog was on the other side of the road, an intersection away from her. She could see its chest heaving even through the distance and the rain, and knew the silence had only come so that it could catch its breath while she wasn’t moving.

Gwen abandoned the search for her shoes, scrambling to her feet and stumbling backward. Her knees and palms were bleeding from the fall, washing down her skin and disappearing into the water roiling at her feet. For about ten seconds they just stared at each other, breathing hard. “Don’t come after me,” she begged quietly, taking a tentative step backward on legs that felt like they were going to give out any second. “Go back uphill, find somewhere safe and warm and leave me alone --”

The dog’s growl cut through the pounding of the rain, and they both took off running at the same time.

The park was to her left, ten or fifteen feet below the bridge she’d stopped at earlier and so flooded she could barely even see the blades of grass poking out of the water down by the river’s edge, though the flooding hadn’t spread all the way to her yet. Her gaze landed on the tiny manicured trees and suddenly she didn’t want to run anymore.

She whirled around, her feet slipping on something slimy and nearly sending her to the ground again, and she raised her backpack with one hand as the dog came to a stop a few feet away. “Go AWAY!” she screamed, kicking at the water. “Just get the _ fuck _out of here and LEAVE ME ALONE!”

It crept forward, ears back and body low to the ground, a quiet, steady growl in the back of its throat. She brandished her backpack again and took a sudden step forward, hoping to spook it into running off.

“I said GET OUT OF HERE!” Her voice cracked into a shriek, tearing through her throat and coming out bloodied.

The dog darted forward, barking, and she swung her bag like a mace. It was practically empty, but there was a solid _ thunk _as the boots inside collided with the dog’s head, and it leapt back with a whine that she imagined was as much surprise as pain. She lifted the backpack for another blow and it sank its teeth into the bag, planting its feet and tugging backward with all its strength.

“No you fucking don’t!” Gwen’s arms were shaking, but she tightened her grip and yanked back, feeling the pavement dig into her bare feet as she tried to break free. “That’s all I have left, and you are _ not taking it away from me!” _

There was another threatening growl, then a thunderclap cracked the sky open as a bolt of lightning lanced through it, striking a tree in the middle of the park. With a rip, the backpack split in half, and the force of them both suddenly flying backward flung the contents of the bag into the air and over the side of the bridge.

The dog, either alarmed or satisfied, ran off with its shredded half of the backpack, disappearing down a side street.

“No no no no no!” Gwen sprinted to the railing, peering down as well as she could through the rain. Her clothes had landed above the waterline, but the overflowing river was creeping its way toward them. She probably had five minutes or less before they were washed further into the city, and there didn’t seem to be any stairs leading down into the park from where she stood.

She pushed her dripping hair out of her face and waded to the other side of the bridge, where the street suddenly dropped off into a steep concrete decline. It was clearly not supposed to be walked down -- the railing extended all the way across until the drop gave way to buildings -- but she hooked her leg over the low fence and climbed over, nearly falling over as the rush of water off the street tried to push her down into the park. She could see her wet pile of clothes better from here, and something about how pathetic and sad they looked steeled her resolve.

Fuck Camp Corp. Fuck men with guns who steal shit. Fuck police, fuck dogs, fuck stores without ATMs and buses that don’t run. If Gwen had to leave the city with less than she’d had when she came, fine, but she wasn’t leaving empty-handed.

She carefully let go of the railing, sliding each foot forward without lifting it from the concrete to make sure she didn’t trip on anything. She had to lean backward like a bad surfer to keep from falling forward, but the water didn’t have quite as strong a pull as she got further away from the top of the hill.

She made it halfway down when a bolt of lightning struck close enough to smell the ozone; she jolted in surprise and lost her footing, and the water and gravity did the rest.

Gwen landed on the paved path underneath the bridge. She had one arm held out to catch her fall, and it hit the ground first, taking the brunt of her weight before twisting and crumpling underneath her body with a sickening _ crack_.

Agony shot through her arm and she screamed. Rolling off of the damaged limb with a weaker cry, she saw her hand laying limp, bent back until the backs of her knuckles brushed her forearm. Then she saw blood and the white flash of bone -- in several places, kinking out her arm like a grotesque accordion.

Then everything went black.


	5. Chapter 5

Gwen woke up spluttering. Half her face was in water -- not enough to drown in, but almost up to her nostril laying on her side -- and her other cheek was being stroked by something warm and damp and foul-smelling.

“Back off, Wolfie!” There was a rush of cool air as whatever had been touching her was pulled away, and she sat up, opening her eyes and coughing. The first thing she saw was the patch of grass her clothes had been sitting on -- _ had been_, because the water had risen enough to wash everything away except her boots, which were sitting mostly submerged a foot or so away.

Struggling into a sitting position, she pushed with both hands off the pavement --

_ Scquelck _

\-- and collapsed immediately with a shriek of pain, pulling her shattered arm to her chest. She couldn’t bring herself to look at it, but she could feel the bones and muscles shifting under her skin like Nerris’s bag of dice, making sickly grinding wet noises when she tried to move it.

For a minute or two she just focused on staying conscious, sobbing through the pain until it no longer blackened the edges of her vision and she no longer felt like she was breathing through a straw.

At which point she became aware of two things: that the constant, low-pitched moaning noise she’d been hearing was coming from her, and that the white dog who’d chased her onto the bridge was sitting at her feet.

She jolted back -- another bolt of pain so intense it stole her breath -- and tried to scramble away; the dog growled, but she heard footsteps from behind her and a pair of work boots stepped into her view, a hand coming down to scratch between the dog’s ears and soothe its grumbling.

“I’m sorry about Wolfie. He’s not good with strangers yet, but we’re working on it.” 

Gwen managed to lift her head enough to see the street musician she’d given the last of her money to that morning, an umbrella replacing the guitar in his hands.

He flashed her a bright smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Looks like you’ve had a rough day, crazy lady.”

* * *

“You’re lucky my dog found you.” The musician’s name was Jeff, and he knelt at her side, wrapping a sweatshirt around her arm and cheerfully ignoring both her screams of pain and that each one made the dog bark. “I was fucking terrified when I saw he’d gotten out, but when I found him he just kept barking and running away until I followed him to where you were. Wolfie’s a regular Lassie, aren’t you, boy?” He reached out and stroked the dog’s head, dropping into a baby-talk voice. “Wouldn’t stop boofing at me until I came and found the crazy lady, huh?”

Her arm looking . . . well, not _ straight_, but more like a line drawn by a toddler than a line drawn by a toddler in an earthquake, Jeff used the sleeves of the sweatshirt to lash her arm steady against her chest. Then he helped her stand. He’d set up her boots, dumping out as much of the water as he could, and supported her weight as she stepped into them. Wolfie didn’t seem to have a leash or even a collar, but he trotted along obediently beside them as they shuffled down the street.

With her arm steadied, Gwen was able to think about something besides searing agony, and she had just enough self preservation to ask where they were going.

“There’s a hospital a couple blocks from here. Well, the bus stop’s a couple blocks, then the hospital is a couple stops from there, but I bet we can get you a seat on the bus and the hard part will be over. Say, you got any cash for the bus?” He laughed at the look of panicked horror on her face, jostling her a bit and making her cry out. “Oops, sorry. I’m just fucking with ya. My mom’d kill me if I made a lady pay, even if she _ is _crazy.”

He kept up a steady stream of chatter the entire way to the bus, and even managed to get her safely boarded, seated, and paid for without breaking the flow of his monologue. She was certain he’d leave her behind once on the bus so that he could walk his dog home, but with a grin and a dap to the driver, Wolfie was allowed on board, settling down at their feet and shaking off the rainwater so that everyone on the bus was soaked.

“Good boy,” Jeff murmured, petting Wolfie. “You’re gonna live, crazy lady.”

She let out a huff that was half amusement, half relief. She tilted her head back against the bus window and closed her eyes, too tired for conversation.

Unfortunately, her savior was neither too tired or able to take a hint. “Does the crazy lady have a name?” he asked.

“Gwen,” she replied without opening her eyes.

There was a moment of quiet as the bus blasted through the water drenching the road, sending up water to each side like the Red Sea parting. “Does crazy lady Gwen have a phone number?”

She snorted, lifting her head and looking at him. The pain in her arm had faded -- or she’d just gotten used to blocking it out -- and she could actually summon a bit of “what the fuck?” energy. “_Seriously?” _

He shrugged, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, just thought I’d ask!” Another few seconds of silence, then he added, “So . . . boyfriend, huh?”

God, the hospital couldn’t arrive soon enough. “No,” she said with a sigh, “no boyfriend.”

“Girlfriend?”

“You’re really running through all the brownie points you earned saving me.”

“Okay, okay, fine.” He turned his attention to Wolfie again, chuckling. “Can’t blame a guy for trying, that’s all.”

Gwen glanced over at Jeff, trying to put herself in the mindset of one of her fanfictions. _ Very _cute, redhead, played guitar, with a dog and a helpful streak a mile wide . . . not nearly brooding enough, maybe, and obviously not a supernatural creature, but still --

Oh, fuck.

Fucking _ fuck_, no.

Jeff glanced up at her, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a smile, and something in that expression was so familiar she considered throwing herself out one of the bus windows and taking her chances in the storm. “Thinking it over?”

She shook her head, smirking despite herself. He was easy to talk to and hard to dislike -- which in _ no way _ reminded her of any coworkers, living or dead. Besides, she’d let that crush die a long time ago. “Nah, sorry. You just remind me of someone.”

“Someone good, I hope.” She didn’t reply, and the silence between them was surprisingly companionable, considering she was fighting unconsciousness and had just rejected him several times. “Oh, hey, it’s our stop.” He tugged on the cord and the bus screeched to a halt. “Come on, crazy Gwen, let’s get you out of here.”

* * *

“There has to be someone we can call, ma’am.”

Gwen shrugged helplessly. Sure, there were plenty of people they _ could _call, except that Camp Campbell didn’t have a landline (she’d forgotten to pay the phone bill and at some point it became easier to just keep not paying it and let parents call their cells) and the only phone number she knew by heart was the Indian place down the street from her apartment. And while she loved and appreciated Mr. Agarwal more than most of her family, she didn’t think he’d drive six hours just to check one of his most loyal customers out of the hospital.

The receptionist looked at her with pity, then glanced around to make sure no one was watching. “Hold on a second, dear.” She fished in one of her desk drawers for a moment, then pulled out -- Gwen resisted the urge to laugh -- not just _ a _granola bar, but the exact brand and flavor David had sent her out of the camp with. “I don’t carry cash much anymore --”

“Who does?” she replied dully.

“-- but I don’t want you heading out of here with nothing.”

Gwen took it, because it had been almost 24 hours since she’d last eaten and she was being kicked back out onto the street; without health insurance or money, all the doctors had done was get her “stable” -- which meant a cast, some painkillers, disinfectant for her cuts, and an IV for dehydration -- and sent her on her way.

She didn’t feel stable. She didn’t feel much of anything, thanks to the drugs, but definitely not anything resembling “stable.” But there was nothing she could do. She didn’t have to go home, but she couldn’t stay here.

Of course, all she wanted to do was go home.

She just didn’t quite know how to get there.


	6. Chapter 6

It was surprisingly easy to get money for a bus back home; despite the charitable efforts of the hospital staff, Gwen’s clothes hadn’t really survived the evening, and she looked more than tattered enough for sympathy. What took longer was sitting at a bus stop under the anemic drizzle that still remained of the storm, leaning into the open door of each stopping bus asking, “Are you going to Sleepy Peak? Do you know _ which _bus is going to Sleepy Peak?”

Finally the seventh bus driver had enough mercy to set her straight: “That bus left early because of the flooding. It won’t be back til morning.”

Gwen stepped out of the way, letting the driver close the doors and roar off into the night.

The smart thing to do would be to find a shelter and hunker down; they might give her a hot meal, maybe even internet access so she could try and reach David somehow, and at least she could get some sleep. Or she could hit the police station a few blocks back and hope that Brian or whatever his name was had cleared things up with that dumbass cop, and she wouldn’t spend the night in a jail cell. 

But fuck it, she needed to get home _ now_. 

The thought of sitting and doing nothing, of spending a second longer than necessary somewhere so unfamiliar and unfriendly and _ not Camp Campbell_, made her skin feel tight and quivery like her entire body had Restless Leg Syndrome. She couldn’t call an Uber without her phone, and there was no way taxi or any driver would be willing to travel over an hour out of their way on the promise that probably someone at their destination would be able to pay for the trip.

She ducked into the convenience store that had turned her away more than twelve hours ago, spent her bus money on a water bottle and a bag of trail mix, and turned her back on Camp Corp.

(As she crossed the city limits, she flipped off the whole shitty place without turning around.)

* * *

Camp Campbell was buried in a sheet of fog that parted around her as she passed through it, the damp heaviness in the air finally chasing away the bugs that had enjoyed feasting on her ever since she’d left the city. Gwen passed through the remains of what looked like an obstacle course -- why had David tried to run _ that _activity by himself? -- and was so relieved to see the shrouded outline of her cabin that she had to clap a hand over her mouth to keep from bursting into tears.

If anyone had told her at the beginning of the summer that returning to the camp would ever make her cry _ happy _tears, she would’ve probably hit them over the head with David’s guitar.

Speaking of guitars . . . she reached into her jacket pocket, once again pulling out the scrap of paper that had Jeff the Musician’s phone number on it, along with the words “no pressure!” and a smiley face. She’d looked at it several times between discovering its presence on her way out of the hospital and this moment, and every time her first instinct was to crumple it up and throw it in the nearest ditch, let some birds use it as a nest or something. But then . . . 

It was the red hair, and the smile. The guitar. Even the frustrating inability to recognize boundaries was kind of adorable in an achingly familiar way. And she knew that the solution to unrequited feelings wasn’t to date someone _ close enough_, but -- well.

It was tempting, a little bit.

As she slipped inside the cabin as silently as she could, she checked the pine-tree-shaped clock ticking quietly away between the counselors’ beds.

It was 5:30 -- exactly the same time she’d left.

Sometimes life was _ really fucking stupid_. 

“Nngh?” The pile of blankets on David’s bed stirred at the sound of the door closing, and she winced. “Gwen, is that you?”

“Shh,” she murmured, “just go back to sleep.” She considered telling him he was dreaming, but she’d pretty much worn out that excuse at this point. “I’m just getting back.”

He hummed sleepily, struggling to free himself from his cocoon of blankets and sit up. Half of his hair stood straight up like a badly-done fauxhawk, and she quickly turned away, her throat tightening. “Gee, you were gone a long time! I hope that means you had a lot of great things to talk about with Camp Corp!”

Great things. Right. Gwen pressed her lips together, squeezing her eyes shut and reminding herself that she only wanted to have a complete meltdown because she was hungry and sad and more tired than she’d ever been in her entire life, and it was a much better idea to just go to sleep than to start thinking about it and crying and --

“Oh, I almost forgot! There’s some mail that came in yesterday for you. I put it on your desk!”

She couldn’t give less of a fuck about the mail, but the responsible adult in her moved on autopilot, crossing the room to the pile of papers and sifting through for the letters placed on top. Bills, some letters for the campers from home, a reminder to all the camps to avoid a blond-haired man talking about ascension . . . and three thick envelopes with return addresses from the city police department, the hospital that had fixed her arm, and Camp Corp. After a minute or two of struggle she managed to open all three envelopes, laying them out side-by-side on the desk as though whatever bad news was in them would be easier to take if she saw it all at once.

There was rustling from behind her, and the irritated squeak of old bed springs. “Goodness, Gwen, what happened to your shoes? And . . . um . . . your hair . . . hey, Gwen?”

She ignored him, bracing herself against the desk with one hand and trying to make sense of the letters in front of her.

A court summons for next week. She’d been charged with resisting arrest and disturbing the peace, and was liable for a fine of up to $5,000.

A hospital bill -- sent to her, because of course her job didn’t give health insurance -- that was even more expensive.

And a letter informing her officially that her application to join the Camp Pals Partner Program had been rejected, and she could expect no further assistance, financial or otherwise, from Camp Corp in the future.

“Gwen?” David’s hand alighted on her shoulder, and he came up behind her, peering to see the envelopes. “Did you have a good trip?”

She had no money, no possessions except a couple of camp uniforms and the laptop she’d fortunately left at the cabin, and now was being charged more than she’d make in an entire summer at the camp. She turned to tell her coworker this, and realized his usual smile was muted, muddled with sleepiness and fading as he took in her appearance. He took a step back, running a hand through his bedhead, his eyebrows drawing together in concern. His eyes flicked back to the letters, skimming them faster than she’d ever thought he was capable of reading.

David looked back up at her -- his eyes widening and his mouth falling open as he noticed her cast. “Gwen --”

She took a deep breath to tell him not to worry about it and her legs gave out.


	7. Chapter 7

She ended up telling him everything from the floor, leaning against her desk and sobbing into a wad of tissues he’d scrounged up from his (much tidier) side of the cabin while he carefully scrubbed at the worst of the dirt and blood with a damp washcloth. Her body, having run on adrenaline ever since she almost missed her bus, had finally decided it was done doing anything for her until she allowed it some rest and food, and David had to carefully help her into bed when she couldn’t get off the floor herself.

Gwen was swaddled in blankets when he slipped back into the cabin, pulling the curtains around the rising sun and crossing over to her side of the room. “Good thing it’s Saturday,” he whispered -- she wasn’t sure if he was trying to be soothing or if he somehow thought the campers would be woken up by their talking too loud. “You can rest up today!”

She took the thermos he held out, watching him set a second one on the table next to her. A cautious sip made her wince, the sharp earthy taste inexplicably too sweet and too bitter at the same time.

“Sorry,” he said, watching her carefully as she managed another swallow of the tea, “but ginger’s supposed to be full of antioxidants!”

Gwen wasn’t sure that was true, but the drink warmed her up for the first time since the first raindrops hit her skin, and it was impossible to be annoyed when she was so cozy. (David had gathered up pillows from both sides of their cabin as well as the supply closet, and she’d been safely ensconced in a little nest to make sure she didn’t fall over and hurt herself while he was out taking care of things.) “What’s that?” she asked, jerking her chin at the other thermos.

He smiled, patting her knee, and she was struck, not for the first time, by how good he could be in a crisis. “Just some soup, for when you’re ready.” Her stomach clenched at the words, as though trying to close itself around food she hadn’t eaten yet, and something in her face must’ve expressed longing because David’s smile widened and he took the tea from her hands, replacing it with the soup. “Slowly, okay?”

She groaned, inhaling the steam and resisting the urge to chug the entire thing like she was at a frat party. “Yeah, yeah,” she muttered with a sigh. “My legs don’t work well enough to get me to the garbage if I start hurling all over the place.”

(That wasn’t _ entirely _true, but . . . well, it’d been a while since she’d felt truly pampered, and David was so guilt-stricken over not having been there for her that he was apparently perfectly willing to treat her like she was an invalid.)

After a few minutes with him watching her to make sure she didn’t inhale her soup too fast, she let him take it from her and set it aside, flopping onto her side and wriggling into a comfortable position. “Sleep now.”

David chuckled and moved some pillows out of her way, then crossed the room and dimmed the lights. “You’ve certainly earned it,” he said, brushing her hair out of her face. They both stiffened -- that wasn’t something that’d ever happened before -- but after a moment she decided she was too tired to take offense and relaxed. “I’ll be over by the window if you need anything.”

She managed a hum of assent, already feeling the dizzying pull of unconsciousness dragging her away.

He petted her hair for a few more seconds, like he was trying to reassure himself she was still there. “I’m so sorry I didn’t answer when you called, Gwen.” His voice was barely a whisper, and she wasn’t awake enough to fully register the words, let alone respond. “Thank you for getting home safe.”

* * *

The first thing she was aware of as she woke up was that her arm hurt. (Still. Again. It was constantly in a state between “discomfort” and “just chop it off already,” but after a little bit of sleep she’d regained just enough mental capacity to really appreciate the pain.)

The second was David’s voice: “I don’t think I’ve ever been so disappointed in my life!”

Gwen froze, convinced for a second that he’d realized she was awake and that she’d completely blown their chances with Camp Corp, but then he paced across her field of vision and she saw he was talking on the phone, stomping back and forth across their cabin and clearly too agitated to keep his voice down.

“Well, I think an apology is the least you could do!” He strode back into view, running a hand through his hair and making it stick up in all directions. “But frankly, I don’t know if she’ll even be willing to accept it, and I wouldn’t blame her one bit!”

She was too groggy to care about whatever fresh disaster the camp had spat out at them, and let her eyes drift shut again, more than happy to let this be David’s problem.

“She showed determination and resourcefulness, even after the way you treated her, and if those aren’t values you want in your Camp Pals, then I don’t think _ you’re _a good fit for Camp Campbell!” A moment of silence, then he continued, “As a matter of fact, Mrs. Campwell, she told me everything, and you should all be ashamed of yourselves!”

Gwen’s eyes flew open and she tried to sit up -- which, thanks to a thousand pounds of blankets and a broken arm, was proving borderline impossible. She flopped back onto the mattress as David resumed his lecture, clearly still not realizing she was awake and very worried about what he was getting them into this time. “David,” she tried, but her throat was dry and cracked, and she could only manage a whisper.

“And another thing -- wait, excuse me?” He came to a stop in her view again, frowning at nothing as he listened for a long time to the voice on the other end of the phone. His face, initially angrier than she’d ever seen him get at anyone except Max, went through quite a journey, and by the time he spoke again it was more confused than anything. “That’s -- um . . .” His voice cracked, and he licked his lips, looking lost. “I’ll have to ask, but -- I mean, that’s very generous of you.”

The conversation continued for another minute or two, with him saying little more than “yes” and “thank you,” and when he hung up it was with an expression like he’d gotten hit in the face with a baseball bat, stunned and dazed.

She tried once more to squirm free of her snuggly prison and he finally noticed her. “Oh, Gwen! You’re awake.” David hurried to her side, helping her sit up and handing her another thermos, this one filled with cool water.

“How many thermoses do you have?” she said, accepting the pills he placed in her palm.

He shrugged, screwing the cap back on the bottle of painkillers and setting it aside. “They’re the best kind of cup!”

“Even better than that mug you take everywhere?”

“Well, if I found a thermos that said _ ‘#1 Counselor’ _. . .”

She smirked and settled into a more comfortable position. “What was that call about?”

“Oh. Right.” David laughed nervously, scratching the back of his neck. “Okay, so don’t be mad . . .”

She glared at him, and he dropped the act.

“I called the Campwells and gave them a piece of my mind!” He quailed under her silent disapproval and wrapped his arms around himself. “It wasn’t fair how they treated you! And I was just going to ask for a second chance to speak with them about the Pals program, but then I was on hold for a long time and I remembered being on hold when I would call _ you _at Camp Corp -- because it was the same music, you see -- and then I started thinking about how nice it was to have everyone back at Camp Campbell and all the great things you’ve done for the camp, and then after everything that happened to you . . . by the time someone answered the phone I was in a real heck of a mood.”

“Huh.” Her face on fire from the heat of all those blankets, Gwen took another long drink of water, processing his words. “So what about that stuff at the end? You didn’t sound so mad anymore.”

“That’s the strangest thing!” he exclaimed, turning to face her with a suddenness that jostled the mattress, sloshing her water all over her. “Oops, sorry! Let me get that . . .”

She pulled herself away from him, snatching the handful of tissues he’d been prepared to blot at her clothes with. “Hands off and keep talking. I can do this with one hand.”

He flushed and looked away as she dried herself off (though it wasn’t like there was anything _ weird _ going on. It was just a little water). “W-well, it turns out Mr. and Mrs. Campwell feel just terrible about what happened, and they consider everything you went through at least a little bit their fault. So not only do they want us to come back in for another meeting about Camp Pals next week --” He saw the look on her face and quickly added, “ _ both _of us this time -- but they also spoke with the judge in charge of your court case and got it dismissed! It turns out they’re old golf buddies with several key figures in the city government.”

“Makes sense,” she muttered, and it kind of did. They were really just _ that _friendly.

“Plus they heard about what happened to your arm --”

“I wonder how that happened,” she said dryly, and he smiled sheepishly.

“I was very upset!” he defended. “But more importantly, they’ve agreed to cover the cost of your stay at the hospital and any other medical bills! Plus they’re making another donation to Camp Campbell in your honor!”

Her smirk faded as she realized what David was saying. “They’re seriously doing all that?” The Campwells were just making the entire nightmare go away?

“They’re very nice people,” he begrudged. Then he gave her a sideways glance and a sly grin. “Also I think they’re a little scared you’ll sue them.”

She nearly spit out her water, and he quickly took it from her and set it somewhere safe. “What? Why would they think that?”

“I was _very upset!”_

Gwen covered her face with her unbroken hand, groaning. “Oh my god. I can’t believe you did that.” David didn’t respond, and she lowered her arm to look at him. “I’m serious, David. I can’t believe you did all that.”

He shrugged, not quite meeting her gaze. “The Campwells did most of it,” he said, fiddling with a loose thread in the quilt thrown over their laps.

“Not the important stuff.” When he didn’t say anything or look up from the string he was slowly working out of the blanket, she leaned against his shoulder, partly because she was feeling sleepy again and partly because she just wanted to be close to his warmth. “Seriously, David, thanks.”

“You’re very welcome!” His tone was chipper as usual, but there was an embarrassed, strained tone to his voice she wasn’t used to, and he kept tugging at the thread instead of giving her a hug like he usually would if she expressed a modicum of affection. “By the way, we need to get into town next week to cancel the camp’s credit cards and get you a phone. I’m not as good with the budget as you are, but I think we can certainly afford it now. You really do need it to do your job, so it’s a business expense.” 

The thought of leaving the cabin, let alone the camp, sounded about as appealing as another broken arm, but she was touched that he’d dug through their expenses, considering he usually avoided them like they could give him rabies. “Sure.” The silence wasn’t quite comfortable, not with him worrying that thread like a dog with a toy, but she was warm and tired and it was enough to let some of her walls down. “You know what I realized?”

David went alarmingly still for a moment, then resumed his fidgeting. “What?”

She settled herself more snugly against his side, because if he could have no personal space then so could she, at least when she was tired and her arm was broken. “I kept thinking about how much I wanted to go home, but not about New York.”

“Yeah?”

Well, she wasn’t going to spell it out for him. She had some pride, after all. “I guess I don’t hate it here,” she said instead, and though she’d always imagined that the decision to settle for her life at Camp Campbell would be terrifying, it didn’t feel any different.

If anything, it was kind of a relief.

“I’m glad to hear that, Gwen. Welcome home.” He finally shifted to let her lean more comfortably on him, gingerly putting his arm around her shoulders. When she nuzzled her face into the crook of his neck, she felt something brush lightly against her temple.

They both froze. After a second she sat up straight, and he pulled his arm away like she’d suddenly burst into flames, his eyes darting around the room but nowhere near her direction.

“David,” she said, keeping her voice measured as though that would squash down the weird lightness building in her chest, “did you just kiss my hair?”

“I -- would you look at that? It’s time for me to check on the campers!” He scrambled off the bed, catching himself on the string wrapped around his finger and dragging the quilt halfway across the cabin before freeing himself. “You should get some rest!”

Like a magic word, the thought of rest did make her entire body droop. “We need to talk about that,” she warned, laying back down and pulling the blankets up to her chin. “When I wake up.”

He laughed, fake and high-pitched. “Of course we’ll talk, Gwen! We talk all the time! And we’ll definitely talk later. When you wake up. Tomorrow -- or maybe not! Don’t wanna rush your recovery, after all!” In seconds, he’d laced up his boots and was halfway out the door.

“David!” She sat up as well as she could one-handed, suddenly overcome with the feeling that something would happen if she let him just leave and fell asleep without saying anything.

He paused in the doorway, turning to her. His entire body was tensed, anxious and ashamed like he thought she was going to scream at him. “Y-es?”

“I . . .” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, remembering the feeling of looking out at the park and missing the forest, of the homesickness she’d felt thinking about the camp, of the way lanky, helpful, ginger musician Jeff had appealed to her so much.

She thought about how David didn’t have to call Camp Corp and yell at them, but did it because he was too angry on her behalf not to. And about how he’d hunted down the money to get her a phone, even though they could manage the camp just fine with only one between the two of them for at least a little while. And more than that, she thought about what she wanted, and what she’d always assumed, and how she'd never met anyone who'd threatened to sue a corporation for her.

“I think it’ll be a good talk,” she finally said; she’d half expected to open her eyes and he’d have disappeared, but he was still staring at her, face pink and eyes wide and shiny. “I mean, if that was . . . what I thought it was. It’ll be a happy talk.”

It took a second for understanding to dawn, but when it did he smiled so wide she thought his face might crack in half. “O- oh, I --” He gulped, then gave her another radiant smile. “Then I’ll be sure to hurry back!”

“Good.”

As the door closed, Gwen laid back down. A strange, uncomfortable crinkling made her wince, and after a minute of confused fumbling she found Jeff’s note, still crammed in the pocket of her jacket. 

Ten numbers. _ “No pressure!” _Smiley face.

If David was brave or self-assured enough to leave a note for a stranger on the bus, it would probably look something like that, or something close enough.

Gwen smiled at the note, then crumpled it up and tossed it in the garbage can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ending is rough, but I feel like some exaggerated romantic feelings were necessary -- in no small part because it'd barely count as a Gwenvid Week post if I hadn't actually thrown David in there at some point. XD I don't love the ending, but hopefully you guys do and will say nice things about it so I feel better about myself.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, don't even try to attach a timeline to this. Having it in the city -- where things like clocks and other people exist -- means that there has to be somewhat of a stricter timetable than "The Forest" did, but I wanted to keep it as surreal and vague as possible. We don't know how long David was trapped in the forest, and similarly I only have a foggy idea of how I think time passed between her leaving and returning to Camp Campbell.
> 
> If something is hilariously incongruous -- I don't know how long a break like hers would take to set (I don't even know if it's actually possible to break an arm in that way), and I couldn't have less of an understanding of the legal system in literally any way -- that's due to me either being ignorant of the rules or playing very fast and loose with them. The City has no name, it's unclear how far away it is from Sleepy Peak or if there are any other towns or cities nearby . . . it's all jacked up. Some of that is on purpose, to try and recreate some faint echo of Nicolosi's gorgeously bizarre atmosphere, but some of it must be chalked up to my own ignorance. I hope you'll be able to look past any of those kinds of mistakes.


End file.
